


The Accident

by mldrgrl



Series: Adventures of The Lady Detective and The Writer [16]
Category: Californication (TV), The Fall (TV 2013)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fear, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-23 23:02:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9686009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mldrgrl/pseuds/mldrgrl
Summary: Fulfilling a request for a story where Hank gets hurt.





	

She’s conducting a task force meeting when her cell phone rings.  She’s annoyed by the interruption and doesn’t recognize the number, but she’s not one to ignore calls.  It could be important.  She lets one of the team take over and steps out of the conference room.

 

“Gibson,” she answers.

 

“Ms. Gibson, I’m calling from the Charing Cross Hospital.”

 

“Yes?  Is this regarding the Peck case?”

 

“No, ma’am, this is regarding Henry James Moody.  Your contact information was found on Mr. Moody when he was admitted.”

 

The annoyance immediately vanishes and is replaced by a flood of fear.  There’s a hollow feeling in her chest and the hall she was in seems to grow momentarily smaller.  Not a lot of air is getting into her lungs.

 

“Is everything alright?” she asks.

 

“Mr. Moody was brought in by ambulance with head trauma from an auto accident.”

 

“I’ll be right there.”

 

She hangs up and stands absolutely still until the blood stops rushing so loudly in her ears.  She has a contact at the Charing Cross police station.  She calls him as she walks briskly down the hall to her office.  There’s no answer and she doesn’t leave a message.  She grabs her bag and pulls her coat on while heading downstairs to the intake area.

 

Quickly, she scans the room in search of a constable who’ll do her bidding and not ask questions.  Most of the officers scurry about to look busy when she appears.  She chooses Officer Cullman and requests to be taken immediately to the Charing Cross Hospital, lights and sirens a necessity.

 

The drive should’ve taken more than twenty minutes, but it takes ten.  Cullman drops her in front of the emergency entrance and leaves with instructions to let her second in command know she’s attending to a matter at the hospital.

 

She’s accustomed to walking into hospitals, flashing her badge and being led to victims of attacks.  She’s not accustomed to walking into hospital looking for a loved one with head trauma.  She doesn’t know how to handle that, so she does what she always does and flashes her badge at reception.

 

“I’m here regarding the auto accident,” she says.

 

“The DOA?” the nurse asks.

 

Her heart stops.  Or maybe it doesn’t, but she can no longer feel it beating in her chest and it feels like her blood has stopped pumping through her veins.  She gives a brief nod and the nurse gives her directions to the morgue.  Somehow, her feet manage to move and she dazedly moves to the elevator bank and punches the down button.

 

She has to flash her badge to a few more hospital officials and they slide the body out of a cold storage locker and unzip the bag he’s been placed in.  She stares hard into the face of the dead man, grateful that his eyes are closed.  She puts a hand to her brow and realizes her fingers are shaking.  She blows out a deep breath and her nose stings with unshed tears.

 

“It’s not him,” she says, rubbing a finger across her forehead.  “It’s not the man I’m looking for.”

 

She walks out on weak knees and leans against the wall for a moment to catch her breath.  On the way out, she spots an attending nurse she recognizes and asks her to look up the admittance record for Henry James Moody.  He’s still in the ER, curtain 7.  Head trauma.

 

Sometimes the trick to avoiding being stopped is to act like you know what you’re doing.  She breezes past the admittance desk into the treatment area and finds curtain 7.  She stops in front of it, preparing herself for what she might find before she pulls back the curtain.

 

There’s blood.  A lot of blood.  On the floor, on the examination table, and on Hank.  Her breath hitches and Hank opens his eyes from where he’s reclined on the table and smiles at her.

 

“Hey, Sherlock,” he says.  “How do I look?”

 

Her lips tremble and her chin wobbles.  She gives a short shake of her head and he groans as he sits up.  She reaches out to help him and then she’s holding on to his arms with her forehead against his shoulder, breathing deeply.

 

“Just a mild concussion,” he says. 

 

She takes a step back to look up at him.  A white bandage is across his forehead, just above his right eyebrow.  There’s blood on the side of his face and ear and in his hair.  He’s got an abrasion on his cheek and the side of his chin.  He looks terrible, but he’s alive.  She puts a hand on his chest and feels for his heartbeat.

 

“What happened?” she asks.

 

“I was walking to the bookstore and this car just...lost control or something.  It jumped the curb and I jumped out of the way, but I kind of slammed into this tree with my face and hit the back of my head.  There was another guy walking a few feet ahead of me.  I think he got hit.”

 

Must be the DOA, she thinks.

 

“I blacked out for a minute or two, I think.  There were people all over telling me not to move and an ambulance came.  I was a little bit out of it.   They took my phone and found your name. ”

 

She nods.  “I came right over.”

 

“I know you had that big meeting today.”

 

“Don’t worry about that.”

 

All she wants to do right now is throw her arms around him, but she’s not sure how much damage he’s suffered.  It could be more than a scraped face and concussion.  Cracked ribs, maybe, or sprains.  She runs her hands over the parts of him that look okay.  The left side of his face, his neck, his arms.  There’s torn skin on his elbow and knuckles.  Her vision gets watery and distorted as she looks down at him.

 

“Got ten stitches,” he says, pointing to the bandage at his head.  “Did you know head wounds bleed a lot?  Like a lot, a lot, a lot, a lot?”

 

“Yes,” she says.  “I know.”

 

“The Doc said I could go home if I had someone there to monitor me for the next 24 hours.  But, if you need to go back to work, they’ll have to admit me for observation.”

 

“Of course I’ll take you home.”

 

“You look distressed, Sherlock.”

 

Her chest aches when she realizes he thinks she’s upset she had to leave work.  “You didn’t break, crack or sprain anything else, did you?” she asks.

 

“Just the gash on the head and a few scrapes.”

 

She slides her arms around his waist and presses her cheek to his chest.  The tears she’s been holding in slip free as she closes her eyes.  Hank bends his neck and puts his lips to her hairline.

 

“You’ll get blood all over your pretty shirt,” he says.

 

“I don’t care,” she whispers.  “I don’t care at all about my shirt.”

 

The End


End file.
